the rubble of our sins
by saltzmans
Summary: Elysium is not what Rebekah Mikaelson expects it to be—klausrebekah.


**notes** | um...in my defence i'm having a bad night...

**warnings** | incest - if you don't like it, please don't read this.

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Elysium is not what Rebekah Mikaelson expects, and what is more surprising than the fact that paradise has now turned out to be something along the lines of blue eyes which dance yellow in the moonlight and the rough feel of stubble against her neck, is that she really rather likes it this way.

The end - or however close to the finish line as she can get - is not the life she's planned on lonely nights under dark skies in empty rooms with nothing to keep vigil with her but the sound of her un-beating heart. Her final chapter turns out not to be a boy with bright eyes and wide smile and an embrace which whispers, "it's all okay I've got you now nothing's going to happen."

Instead, Rebekah Mikaelson's paradise has not a single notion of true love or happily ever afters. At the end of the day, all she's left with is a feeling of shame which weighs down her every moment, sleepless nights and thighs, painted with hues of purple and green and yellow.

They say there's no rest for the wicked, after all, which is perhaps why Rebekah is kept awake night after night these days. The house seems colder when he's not awake and the shadow's are darker and thicker and even though Rebekah's a vampire who can take care of herself, she can't help but move closer to his sleeping body, wondering what might be lurking in their depths.

And by God, she knows - of course she knows - how fucking wrong they are. She's known that from the first awkward, fumbling kiss when they were pretending to be adults - before the bloodlust and fangs and falling apart - and they were drunk off life. But that doesn't stop them. It doesn't stop them from finding time together when there isn't any; ignoring the whispers and stares and judgment. It doesn't stop them from crazed sex late at night when they want nothing more than to dispel anything but themselves from the atmosphere and breathe each other in until their lungs are filled and dying from each other doesn't seem like such a bad idea.

It doesn't stop him from pressing her against him and growling, "you're mine; only mine" against the shell of her ear until Rebekah relents, so loudly she's sure even the coldest of stars can hear her.

Because he's is a narcotic and no matter how many times she forces herself to fall on love with frail, broken, beautiful humans, it's an addiction she can't seem to break because every time she walks away - (I'M DONE THIS IS OVER I'M FUCKING DONE OKAY) - she catches sight of him everywhere, in the eyes of the blued eyes boy she's kissing in Maine, or the trail of cigarette smoke against a Parisian sky and there's this twisted ache in side of her which begs to be followed until one day she wakes up, and they're lying in a broken bed together, and it's as if not a single thing has changed.

He craves her too which is why Rebekah decides the whole arrangement becomes so tantalisingly endless. Occasionally, when the gaps between their reunions become too long, he finds her instead. Perhaps, she's in a cheap bar in some village in Spain, renowned only for its good beer and it's uncanny ability to make you forget, or maybe she's in Cornwall, standing on the grey beach, letting the tide move over her shoes, playing make-believe that the surf is washing away her sins.

But either way, he's there, unchanged as ever, sitting on a bar stool, a half smile playing upon his lips, or leaning against a cluster of rocks, a tattered copy of something-or-other stuffed in his coat pocket.

And they will always watch each other for a while; neither of them saying a thing. They just take each other in - the similar stubborn set of the jaw; the identical fingers, wrapping around a pint of beer, or tapping rhythms into the bar top. They will always look for the differences - the minute changes from the last time they met: the faded hickeys, the new freckles. Because after centuries of the same cycle, it's the little things which keep them going.

Then he will lose his patience and will appear behind Rebekah, not quite touching, but close enough to make the hairs on her back stand up.

"It's been a while, sister," he'll say.

"By the way you say that, one would think you'd missed me, brother," she'll reply.

"Don't get cocky now."

"And what brings you here?"

"Business."

"Oh, come on, Nik."

And then he'll kiss her like it's been centuries; like she's the thing keeping him going. And she'll kiss him back, wrapping her arms around his neck, like he's her anchor. And the people around them will mutter and murmur and raise their eyebrows, but they'll stay like that, lost within each other until they break apart and Klaus will smirk and Rebekah will roll her eyes and tell him that her hotel is just a block away.

At the hotel their clothes will lie strewn, forgotten in the corridor; their dead hearts will ache; their bodies will be drenched with sweat and as they lie side by side, fingertips only just touching, they will pretend that they're in love and their secret is nothing but ashes in the wind.

And hell, it isn't Elysium and it isn't perfect, but Rebekah Mikealson wouldn't settle for anything less.

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